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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826079">take care</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa'>celosiaa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Epilepsy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jordanian Jon, Seizures, TSash is background, Trans Martin Blackwood, Whump, season 1 crew - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:54:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,895</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826079</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin ran from his flat in such a hurry that he forgot something very important:</p>
<p>His seizure medication.</p>
<p>But it'll be fine, right?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Sasha James &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>222</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>take care</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>CW nausea, seizure, misgendering</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Focus.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Just focus.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>For god’s sake.</em>
</p>
<p>It’s been nearly an hour of Martin sitting at his desk, trying desperately to rein in any sliver of concentration he can muster to look at the laptop screen before him. He feels awful doing it, but every time Jon has passed by his desk that day, he’s found himself pretending to click around or to type—though he’s got the brightness set so far down there’s no way he’d be able to see it anyway. After a few attempts at turning it back up, he’s had to immediately look away, as the pounding behind his eyes resumes again. So for now, he’s stuck with reading statements—something he is loathe to do even on a good day.</p>
<p>And this certainly wasn’t.</p>
<p>He knows better than this, <em>knows</em> that he’s very nearly approaching disaster—what with the not sleeping out of hypervigilance, not eating out of anxiety, and not having his seizure meds for the past two days, as he’d managed to run out of his flat without them. And there’s no doubt in his mind that he cannot send anyone back to his flat. Not with Prentiss still on the loose.</p>
<p>
  <em>Selfish selfish selfish</em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>No, stop it.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You haven’t even done anything.</em>
</p>
<p>Wishing more than anything that his mind did not constantly run him ragged with thoughts like this, Martin looks up from his papers, intending to find a rubber band to snap against his wrist as a distraction, but instead—</p>
<p>Instead he finds himself frozen, colors fading in and out across his vision, heartbeat steadily climbing as his fingers go numb.</p>
<p>
  <em>No no no no</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Not now not now please not now</em>
</p>
<p>Realistically, he knows it’s only been a few seconds, but the seconds feel like years against the rapid <em>thrum thrum thrum </em>in his ears, made even worse when he sees Tim approaching from the periphery.</p>
<p>
  <em>Damn it damn it</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Please please please</em>
</p>
<p>“Hey Marto!”</p>
<p>Like clockwork, the focal aware seizure ends, and at last—at last he is able to move enough to look up at where Tim stands, leaning against his desk, smile fading rapidly as he watches Martin blinking in the suddenly-too-bright light.</p>
<p>“You alright?” he asks, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at his face, doubtless taking note of how quickly he is breathing now to match his settling heart rate.</p>
<p>“Y-yeah, sorry, um. Was just thinking,” is all he can reply, fighting to put an easy smile back on his face.</p>
<p>It seems to have been the wrong move, as Tim only shifts to sit atop his desk, expression quickly becoming overrun with concern.</p>
<p>“Okay, well…you look like you’re having a panic attack, mate,” he says lowly, reaching across him to grab his water bottle and set it nearer to him. “What do you need?”</p>
<p>Even with his misguided interpretation, Martin can’t help the flood of affection he feels toward him in this moment—because that’s just Tim, isn’t it? Never assumes, just asks what will help and then does it.</p>
<p>
  <em>If only I weren’t such a mess, and would let him.</em>
</p>
<p>“Oh, n-no it’s not—it’s not that, Tim, I’m—I’m alright. Must’ve…drifted off, or something. Had a nightmare.”</p>
<p>There is no way Tim buys that, no way in hell—but thankfully, he lets it go.</p>
<p>“O…kay then. Well. If that’s the case, I was just thinking of grabbing some lunch, do you want anything? Don’t reckon you’ve eaten properly in a bit, yeah?”</p>
<p>
  <em>God, Tim.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I don’t deserve this.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yes, you do. You deserve a friend and you need to eat.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You need to eat.</em>
</p>
<p>“Uhh—th-thanks, erm.  Where—where are you going?” he asks, wishing to god his voice didn’t sound so shaky.</p>
<p>He takes a few intentionally deep breaths after that—thinking that perhaps it is a panic attack, after all.  Without realizing that several seconds have gone by since his question, he feels Tim’s bracing hand on his shoulder, knowing that he’s not going to ask again—but offering him a clear sign that he’s there all the same.</p>
<p>“Just the corner shop,” he murmurs, starting to rub his thumb over the shoulder seam of Martin’s t-shirt. “Nothing fancy. But I can get you a sandwich, if you like. Well, no—I <em>am</em> getting you a sandwich regardless, but I thought I might be considerate for once and ask if there was anything in particular that you want.”</p>
<p>“Yeah—erm, yeah, just. Anything that’s warm would be nice,” he says at last, sinking a bit as Tim removes his hand from his shoulder. “Thanks, Tim. That’s—that’s really kind.”</p>
<p>“Don’t mention it. Seriously,” he says, clapping his hand back against Martin’s shoulder with force before standing. “Be back in a bit. Drink that water.”</p>
<p>“I will,” Martin nods, earning himself some finger guns of approval before Tim starts walking towards the lift. “Thanks, mate.”</p>
<p>And he’s so close now, so close to shouting after him, to asking him to pick up his meds from the chemist, if he calls them in—</p>
<p>
  <em>Just ask just ask just ask</em>
</p>
<p>—and then Tim is around the corner, and out of sight.</p>
<p>
  <em>Damn it all.</em>
</p>
<p>He tells himself it’s probably for the best anyway—that he’s not really even sure he can get them. But it doesn’t stop him burying his face in his hands, tugging at his hair in frustration and shame. Really though, he ought to call first before mentioning anything—perhaps they have a delivery service, or they’ll refuse him, or something.</p>
<p>
  <em>And what then?</em>
</p>
<p>The idea of finding himself suddenly on the floor of the archives, alone and in the dark with the worms having crawled all over him while he seized—</p>
<p>
  <em>Have to call.</em>
</p>
<p>Reaching bitterly for his phone, he takes a deep breath as it rings, preparing his best “customer service” voice.</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>“Boots, how can we help you today?”</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>“Hi! Erm, I was wondering if—if I could get a refill for my prescription? For—for carbamazepine,” he says, cheery voice belying the dread with which he pinches the bridge of his nose.</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>“Sure thing! Just need your name and date of birth and I’ll look you up.”</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>“Right. Erm—well, it’s Martin, but I think you’ve still got me under, erm. Mary Blackwood,” he says, forcing himself not to grit his teeth at the foul taste his deadname leaves in his mouth. “Date of birth October 15<sup>th</sup>, 1987.”</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>“Alright, let’s see here—“</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Please please please</em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>“—it looks like you’ve already got your refill, Miss Blackwood. Our system says you picked up your medication on the 19</em>
  </strong>
  <strong>
    <em>
      <sup>th</sup>
    </em>
  </strong>
  <strong>
    <em>.”</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>“It’s—it’s Mister, actually. Erm,” he stammers, stomach churning over the entire thing. “L-listen, I—I’ve had to leave my home quite suddenly, and—and I am unable to return there for the time being. So I don’t—I don’t have access to my meds. And I, erm. Really need them.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Pathetic pathetic pathetic</em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>“I’m really sorry, Mister Blackwood. You’re going to have your doctor call in another prescription for you before we can get you that refill. Unfortunately, it’s out of our hands.”</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Of course.</em>
</p>
<p>“Oh, right. That’s erm—that’s okay. Thank you so much,” he says as brightly as possible, unwilling to blame anyone for something out of their control.</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>“You’re quite welcome. Take care.”</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>With a long, shaky sigh, Martin throws his phone back onto his desk, returning his head to its rightful place, buried in his hands. There’s no way he can call his doctor today—or tomorrow even, with it already being a Friday afternoon. No chance of him getting his refill, then. And no chance of sending Tim back to his apartment either.</p>
<p>
  <em>Don’t panic. Don’t panic.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It was just a focal, nothing too bad.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Nothing unmanageable. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I can make it.</em>
</p>
<p>Steeling himself with somewhat tremulous determination, he takes another long breath—blinking back against the steady pounding in his head, and getting back to work.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>“Aw come on, Sasha! Take a break with me!”</p>
<p>“Not on your <em>life</em>. I’m still furious with you, you know,” she replies, tossing her hair like a lion’s mane over her back. “Can’t believe you’d go all the way to the good café for Martin, and not offer me <em>anything</em>. Not even <em>crumbs</em>, Stoker!”</p>
<p>“Listen—” Tim grins back, hands raised in self-defense. “He looked like he could use some soup! I don’t know what else to say.”</p>
<p>“And you didn’t get <em>me</em> any? What about me <em>doesn’t</em> scream ‘I could use some soup, thank you?’”</p>
<p>“It’s different!! It’s—Martin? You alright?”</p>
<p>As he was walking past their bickering, eyes firmly fixed on the floor on the lookout for worms, Martin had suddenly stopped short—looking anxiously up and over their heads, framed by the doorway of Jon’s office.</p>
<p>“Martin?” Tim repeats, already halfway to standing in worry, following Martin’s gaze behind him and finding nothing.</p>
<p>Faster than he can turn back around, Martin’s muscles all tense at once—and he tips backwards onto the floor with a heavy <em>thud</em>.</p>
<p>“Shit! Martin!”</p>
<p>Tim darts forward at once, in some feeble attempt to catch him, but of course, far too late to do so. In his shock, he can do little but stand over him for a few seconds, taken aback upon seeing his eyes still open where he lies still on the floor.</p>
<p>“What happened?” Jon demands, stepping quickly out of his office towards them, where Sasha now crouches near his head.</p>
<p>“I-I don’t know, he just—”</p>
<p>And then Martin begins to convulse.</p>
<p>“Oh my god, he’s—he’s having a seizure,” Sasha gasps as she claps a hand over her mouth, from where it had been pressed against his forehead.</p>
<p>“Fuck. Fuck, what do—what do we do? Do we call 999?” Tim shouts, unwilling to sit by and watch as this all goes on around him, already grabbing Sasha’s phone from her nearby desk.</p>
<p>“I—I think so, let me—”</p>
<p>“Wait.”</p>
<p>Two sets of eyes land upon Jon as he interjects, crouching near Martin’s flailing left arm, waiting for him to set it back down before quickly grabbing at a bracelet circling his wrist.</p>
<p>“I-it’s a medical bracelet. Says epilepsy,” he says lowly, quickly sitting back on his heels as Martin’s arm begins to jerk again.</p>
<p>“<em>Fuck</em>. I—I had no idea,” Tim breathes, running an anxious hand through his hair. “How could we not know?”</p>
<p>“We should—” Sasha breaks off quickly to swallow a lump in her throat, before continuing. “We should be timing it, did anyone see the time?”</p>
<p>“I-I don’t—it’s probably been less than a minute, right?”</p>
<p>“I think so. I’m—here, I’m googling it to make sure—”</p>
<p>While she does so, Martin’s head begins to slam into the ground—and Jon immediately pulls off his cardigan, folding it quickly and placing it beneath him to cushion the blow.</p>
<p>“It’s alright, big guy,” Tim says, settling down to kneel next to Jon, who now has a hand gently pressed to his shoulder—not holding him down, just resting there in a comfort Martin probably cannot receive.</p>
<p>Tim rests his own hand against Martin’s thigh all the same.</p>
<p>“Okay, I think we’re good so far,” Sasha says at last, setting her phone down with a timer running on the screen. “Just time it, and—and keep watch. If it goes past five minutes, we call 999.”</p>
<p>“That’s—that’s it?” Tim says in dismay, snapping his eyes back to his friend, still convulsing on the floor. “There’s nothing else we can do?”</p>
<p>“No. We just have to watch out for him,” she replies, voice low as she adjusts Jon’s cardigan beneath his head. “Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”</p>
<p><em>Not</em> the answer that Tim was looking for.</p>
<p>And so they wait—silent save for the rhythmic smacking of his limbs against the carpeted floor, and the occasional whispered platitude, though all know he cannot hear them. The seconds tick by in agony while they sit helpless, all eyeing the timer on Sasha’s phone creeping up steadily past three minutes.</p>
<p>“I don’t like this,” Tim says, knowing how useless it is to say so—Sasha raising her eyes to meet his for the first time in a while.</p>
<p>“Me neither.”</p>
<p>“Nearly three and a half minutes,” Jon mutters, worrying at his bottom lip while still resting a gentle hand on Martin’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“We’ve got you, Martin,” Tim mutters. “We’ve got you.”</p>
<p>Ten more seconds.</p>
<p>Twenty.</p>
<p>Thirty.</p>
<p>Forty.</p>
<p>And at last—at last he goes still, right past the four-minute mark.</p>
<p>“<em>Alhamdulillah</em>,” Jon sighs as he lets his chin briefly rest against his chest, a sentiment echoed by everyone around him.</p>
<p>“Okay, turn him on his side, here—Tim—”</p>
<p>“Got it,” Tim says as he moves to crouch next to her, helping roll him towards Jon, head pillowed on the arm Jon stretched out across the floor as a cushion.</p>
<p>As soon as they get him in the recovery position, they watch as saliva runs out of his mouth, surely fit to choke him had they not turned him—and he begins to snore forcefully, catching Tim very much by surprise.</p>
<p>“Wh-what—” he asks in bewilderment, struggling to hold back a bit of shocked laughter.</p>
<p>“The website said that’s normal,” Sasha assures at once, reaching behind her to grab a box of tissues from her desk behind her. “He’s going to be sleepy for a bit.”</p>
<p>“Okay. That’s—okay,” he says, watching as Jon takes the tissues from Sasha and wipes at Martin’s face so very gently, before tossing them aside and taking his hand.</p>
<p>
  <em>Taking his hand.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>…interesting.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Stowing THAT away for later.</em>
</p>
<p>As Jon starts to move his thumb across the back of Martin’s palm, the snoring stops—and his eyes begin to flutter rapidly, attempting to force their way fully open.</p>
<p>“Hey Martin, can you hear me?” Sasha says rather loudly, bending over him and tapping his shoulder lightly.</p>
<p>All she receives in response is a moan, deep and low, as he squeezes and unsqueezes his eyelids, coughing a bit against the pooling saliva. Jon reaches for the tissues again at once, cleaning his face as best as possible.</p>
<p>“You’re okay mate,” Tim says, patting his hip before leaving his hand there for support. “You’ve had a seizure.”</p>
<p>It takes a few moments, but at last, Martin opens his eyes, looking vaguely around without meeting Jon’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Wh’ happ’n?” he slurs—all three of them exchanging a meaningful glance, a bit alarmed.</p>
<p>“You had a seizure, Martin,” Sasha repeats, stroking at his hair while Tim starts rubbing his hand up and down his arm, hoping it will somehow help to ground him.</p>
<p>Remaining still for a few moments, still blinking, Martin tries to take it all in— looking down towards where Jon still rubs at his hand, though still seemingly unaware of his presence.</p>
<p>“What happened?” he asks again, voice less slurred, but still weak.</p>
<p>“A seizure, Martin,” Jon says, trying desperately to catch his eyes. “You’re alright.”</p>
<p>At once, Martin wrenches his hand away from Jon’s grasp in favor of clapping it over his mouth, muffling a small and desperate gasp behind it.</p>
<p>“Shit. You gonna be sick?” Tim asks, already looking around him for something to grab as Jon once again prepares his tissues.</p>
<p>He does not respond right away, instead pausing for a few deep breaths—at last shaking his head no. In both relief and the absence of something to do with his hands, Jon fusses at the cardigan again—positioning it <em>just so.</em></p>
<p>“Wh—oh, seizure,” Martin breathes, and Tim cannot help but feel relieved at his gaining a bit of orientation back.</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>Eyebrows knitting together, Martin moves the hand clapped over his mouth to rest on his eyes, sniffling a bit before speaking.</p>
<p>“M’so sorry,” he gasps—and it’s enough to break Tim’s heart.</p>
<p>All of their hearts apparently, as they immediately place their hands on him in a gesture of comfort.</p>
<p>“Hey, no, none of that,” Sasha soothes, brushing back his fringe again.</p>
<p>“M’sorry.”</p>
<p>“Martin, it’s alright,” reassures Jon, with such rare gentleness that even Martin lowers his hand to look—wincing quickly as he does so, and placing it back over his eyes at once.</p>
<p>“Do the lights hurt?” Sasha asks worriedly, placing her hand to cover his own, hoping to block more of it out.</p>
<p>“Yeah—<em>ah</em>,” he grits out with a pained little gasp, and Jon gets to his feet.</p>
<p>“I’ll get them,” he says, and walks quickly to the switch, sending them into a darkness illuminated only by the light from the hall.</p>
<p>With a quiet sigh of relief, Martin lowers his hand again, eyes still closed, and rubs absently at his nose. Stumbling a bit as his eyes adjust to the dark, Jon makes his way back to kneeling beside him, taking up his free hand again.</p>
<p>“Your head okay?” asks Tim, prompting Sasha to card through his hair to look for any swelling. “I’m sorry I didn’t—I couldn’t catch you.”</p>
<p>“…what?” comes the vague response, delayed by a few seconds as Martin tries in vain to sort through what was said.</p>
<p><em>“Still confused,”</em> Sasha mouths at him silently—and he nods, instead going back to rubbing up and down Martin’s arm, as Sasha moves to massage his neck.</p>
<p>“M’sorry.”</p>
<p>“Hush, darling. It’s alright,” she says, and Tim knows without a doubt she will sit there all day, repeating these same things to him as long as he needs.</p>
<p>And loves her for it.</p>
<p>“…wh—<em>Jon?”</em></p>
<p>Eyes more focused than ever, Martin looks down to where Jon still rubs a thumb over his palm, stunned very his very presence in this space.</p>
<p>“Yes, I’m here,” he murmurs, offering a small squeeze of affirmation, inadvertently painting a soft grin briefly across Martin’s face—before it drops quickly again in horror, as the reality of the situation sinks in again.</p>
<p>“Oh god. I—oh <em>god</em>.”</p>
<p>“It’s okay, Martin.”</p>
<p>“No no no.”</p>
<p>“It’s alright,” Jon comforts, more soothing than Tim had ever imagined would be possible for him. “Just be still. You’re alright.”</p>
<p>Five minutes turn into ten, turn into fifteen as Martin’s confusion slowly fades away—his recovery naturally filled with a deluge of apologies, patient soothing from his friends, and tending to the waves of nausea that come over him every few minutes. Ever so gradually, he becomes better able to hold a conversation; better able to hold their gaze, asking what happened before he went down, explaining that his…well, <em>everything</em> is sore, but that it’s nothing unmanageable.</p>
<p>There is very little that Martin would call “unmanageable,” of course, but it’s the most they will get out of him.</p>
<p>“I think I can sit up now,” he says after a bit, bracing his arms underneath himself to prepare, and Tim reaches out to support him at once.</p>
<p>“Sure?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>A bit slow, a bit clumsy, they get him up—not without some worried questioning when he hunches forward, face buried in his hands as the headache worsens with the change of posture. But luckily, it dulls as quickly as it comes, and Martin soon finds himself able to look up, even to offer a bit of a sheepish smile.</p>
<p>“Want some water?” Tim asks as soon as he looks steady.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to—”</p>
<p>“I’m on it,” he says, refusing to accept any of Martin’s guilt-laden excuses, and dashes off to the kitchen at once, leaving Jon and Sasha still vaguely holding onto him in the fear that he might fall again.</p>
<p>“I’m alright, guys, really,” he assures, though he makes no effort to shrug their hands off—so there they stay.</p>
<p>“Do you know what caused this, Martin?” Sasha asks, folding his collar from where it sticks up at the nape of his neck.</p>
<p>With a heavy sigh and an exhausted pinch to the bridge of his nose, Martin replies, face reddening with shame.</p>
<p>“Yeah. You’re—you’re going to laugh.”</p>
<p>“Why would we laugh?” Jon asks so earnestly, so softly that it wins him a long and surprised look from Martin.</p>
<p>“I…dunno really, just. It’s just that it’s—it’s all my own fault. Stupid.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“I—I don’t—” he cuts off for a moment to hiss painfully as he rubs at his temple again, and Sasha’s hold tightens ever so slightly as a precaution. “I don’t have my…seizure meds with me. I left them at my flat when—when I ran. From Prentiss.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Of course.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Of course he did.</em>
</p>
<p>“I would have gotten them for you Martin!” Tim shouts as he returns with the water. “Any of us would, mate. You should have said.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t want to send you back to my flat. She might…she might still…be there.”</p>
<p>He fades a bit as he speaks—rubbing once more at his temples, and Sasha resumes her ministrations of massaging his neck.</p>
<p>“Alright, just—it’s alright, Martin,” Jon soothes, a bit alarmed at the way he’s hunched back over—seemingly nauseous again, as he moves the bin a bit closer to himself just in case. “What can we do now?”</p>
<p>After a few long, deep breaths, his churning stomach finally settles long enough for him to answer, albeit a bit more vague-sounding than moments before.</p>
<p>“I tried…I tried to call the chemist, but…they won’t refill it unless I…unless I talk to my doctor. And it’s not like I can just go.”</p>
<p>“You have to get some from A&amp;E then,” Tim insists, sitting back down next to him and pressing a hand atop his shoulder.</p>
<p>“No, I can’t.”</p>
<p>“We’ll go with you,” mutters Jon, before clearing his throat, returning to his best confident-boss tone. “We’ll keep watch for the worms. Go prepared.”</p>
<p>“You don’t—“</p>
<p>“We <em>will</em>,” Sasha says emphatically, leaving no room for argument—and even Martin knows when the battle is lost. “We’re happy to do it, Martin. Seriously.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he very nearly whispers, face flushing beet red as the undue attention of the afternoon catches up with him. “That’s really…too kind.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’ve got to get it somehow, mate,” Tim says with a chuckle, earning himself a warning glare from both Sasha and Jon. “What? I’m sure Martin wants this to happen again even <em>less</em> than we do. Which is saying <em>a lot.</em>”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Martin says, surprising them all by chuckling briefly in return. “Reckon you’re right about that. I didn’t—this is pretty much my worst nightmare, so…just so you all know how sorry I am.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you’ve said,” Sasha laughs. “And it keeps continuing to not be your fault.”</p>
<p>“Right. Sure.”</p>
<p>He does not sound at all sure—but she lets it go all the same.</p>
<p>“We should go today, Martin,” Jon says as he stands, already grabbing a canister of CO2 in preparation. “Don’t want you to miss another dose.”</p>
<p>“And take that thing on the Tube?” Martin laughs, fully smiling for the first time since the whole affair began. “Think we might get some looks.”</p>
<p>“It’s the Tube, mate. Stranger things have happened,” Tim chuckles, rolling his eyes good-naturedly before jumping in to assist him in standing.</p>
<p>“Suppose you’re probably right about that.”</p>
<p>“Let’s go then,” says Jon, face steeled as if armed to the teeth and ready to tangle with anything coming his way. “Work that needs doing.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! come find me on tumblr @celosiaa if you like :)</p>
<p>have a great day out there!<br/>-love, connor</p></blockquote></div></div>
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